


Chocolate Frog Cards

by senoritablack



Category: The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Crack, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3509762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senoritablack/pseuds/senoritablack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rickyl Hogwarts AU, feat. underground candy/booze rings, magical torture of the feathery kind, lots of poison, chocolate frog card support groups, meddling ghosts and finding love after years at war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chocolate Frog Cards

**Author's Note:**

> this is a prompt filled months late (if curious 'bout that, i'm gunna rant in the end notes). anyway, an anon asked me if i could write a harry potter au, so hell yeah i did.  
> i love harry potter. ლ(๏‿๏ ◝ლ)
> 
> (probably, wildly out of character.)

They say the first step is admitting that you have a problem.

And ok, it’s a fine enough abstraction for people who do, but he ain’t got one—really. At least not the one they think he has. What he has is an upset stomach because he’s probably been poisoned. What he has is his luck, or lack of it, since he’s tied up to a chair and there's a very ominous looking feather floating not two inches from his nose.

He also has a bad case of word vomit from what he remembers. After being chased out of the den at Three Broomstick’s by Eugene, covering his ears and badly singing muggle pop songs as the Harrison sister followed him down the stars, he can’t remember.  It’s dark where he is and he can’t make out anything but the high built window and the snow falling in small pitter and patters against it. It has faint smell of egg and its ceiling must be weather worn, because melted snow falls between its splintered wood and onto his shoulder. He’s just notice that half his arm is soaked.

Glaring at the wet spots, Rick tries to loosen his bonds. 

“Man, Professor D is getting a howler for this one!” he grunts. _Writing a letter to the Department of Student Witch and Wizard Welfare first thing..._

He tries to hop, thinking if he could just crash against the floor hard enough the chair'd snap but it doesn’t even pretend to budge. It’s spelled into place.

“Ok, not a problem. Not a problem.” he says, totally convinced.

It’s just then a door fly’s open, bringing with it light so blinding Rick has to tuck his face into his shoulder to shade his eyes.

"Finally, sleeping beauty wakes the hell up!" say a disembodied voice.

Rick snorts because, well, that’s going to be a problem. 

His life never has been boring—in for a sickle, in for a galleon he’s said more than once—and down the road he’s probably going to look back on this moment and be appreciative of the fact, but right now he’s just wondering if he’s been cursed. If he’s done anything wrong to upset the stars. Has the poison got anything to do with like, bad joo-joo? Like Voo Doo, you know, stuff witches from the States get into and all that. 

Rick steels himself.

"Do you think there’s a potion opposite of Felix Felices?” Rick asks, as the light dims and a cloaked figure comes out to face him. All but their eyes is wrapped in a black cloth. They glare. Well, he’s not sure if it counts as real glaring. The person is strong-eyebrowing. Eyebrow flexing? Getting ready for eyebrow debates. Rick thinks the left one is loosing.

"To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure, prince charmin’?" he asks, and is reminded of the feather by his face as it, the light and the Hooded Hoodlum come closer.

"Hey,” they grunt, pointing Rick’s own wand to his forehead. “I'm asking the questions, capiche?"

“Yeah, yeah.” Rick says unimpressed, ”Sure thing.” 

The Masked Marauder stuffs Rick’s wand into the waistband of his trousers, an irony Rick can’t bring himself to dwell on at the moment, and produces an empty vial from his pocket. Before he’s forced to go crosseyed, Rick sees it’s hastily scribbled label.

”Know what this is?" The Veiled Villian asks. Rick has two words at the tip of his tongue, first one being “ridiculous”—which is more of how he’d describe the situation at hand, but the other is more of what he’s probably expected to say.

"Veritaserum.” He chooses. “Man, you gotta work on that penmanship."

The Camouflaged Crook looks to the bottle like it wronged him and makes a sort of noise only native to readers of Teen Witch Weekly’s Heartthrob Alley (not that Rick knows anything about Teen Witch Weekly nor Ralph Heidelberger, keeper for the American National Quidditch Team, nor how his helmet has a brown pumpkin as he loves pumpkin pasties and his favorite color is brown).

”Means you gotta tell me the truth.” says The Obscured Offender, grabbing tight onto Rick’s Slytherin tie and coming within a breaths reach.

Because his body is dirty, fucking traitor, some of those feelings-that-shall-not-be-named come up and he’s trying to settle his nerves before talking again, setting up a forced bravado and daring to shoot further even, somethin’ or where like over confidence.

"I didn't realize it was one of those parties, Dixon. Would of put on that thing you like." 

"Quit trying to be cute, Grimes!" Dixon growls. 

“If we’re honest, I don’t have to try at all!” 

“I’m being serious!”

“So am I! Have you looked at me?” Rick says with a grin.

“Dammit, Grimes!” screams Dixon, letting go of Rick’s tie and throwing the vial at the wall. The bottle makes a hissing noise somewhere vaguely not Dixon and Rick can’t help but gape at the black burn where its remnants fall. _Was that in him?_ What if he had knock his chair into pieces, would he have burst into black smoke? Well chunky black—chunky and bloody, black smoke. He’s wondering if he should see Madam Pomfrey after when he remembers that it’s Dixon who’s gone and probably actually killed him this time. 

Frowning, Rick looks from the bottle’s resting place to the other boy and sees that Dixon’s been yelling things. Lots of things, apparently, and pacing the floor.

"Grimes!" He shouts and shoves his wand up Rick’s nose. Rick stares at it and back to the feather.

“Mind repeating the question, professor?”

Dixon violently whispers a few things and just as fast as it was gone, the now hot, white light is back. 

”Where the hell did they go, huh? My shipment was suppose to be here Friday, Grimes. Where's my booze!" 

Daryl sounds like a banshee and Rick sorta want to say as much, but he figures he not ought to, considerin’ he’s already tied up and whatna.

"Not gunna talk?" 

Rick can’t see him (or anything for that matter), but he knows a spell when he hears it. It’s not a second after the words are cut off that the feather—which had been eyeing him like he'd imagine a dementor would an Azkaban escapee—comes closer to him, and honest to Merlin brushes affectionally up his cheek before attacking the part of his neck that’s not covered by hair or cloth.

"How did you… " Rick squirms. He lets out a full, guttural laugh, and it's the embarrassing kind; one that sounds like you’re choking on something at first and alternates to high pitched whining. He might have farted. He can’t help but think, even as his stomach clenches, and he shakes and tugs against his invisible bonds, that there is only one person who knows of his affliction and how exactly they will pay for the betrayal.  

“Know thy enemies.” Dixon sneers. Rick’s really unimpressed now. He’s also not at all proud of the fact that he can’t stand another minute of this.

"Fuckin’ Peletier. 5th year!" Rick laughs. "Told her—fuckin’ mermaid tits—Dixon, make the damn thing stop!"

He doesn’t.

“T-told her to s-set up an early transaction. Got-got-got your guy to sell to me instead.” he snorts, words coming out breathy. “Used polyjuice—ahaha—fuck—used polyjuice and pretended to be you. S’all in my private storage. Seventh floor."

"Enough, dammit!" Rick howls, trying to school his face but failing. "I’m only one man!"

At his words, the feather falls and the light burst into several small, dimly lit spheres, twirling about before stringing themselves around the room like decorations at the Yule Ball. There’s still a tint to his vision as he comes to, spots that dance around Dixon’s outline.

“I’m very displeased.” he says, really sounding the part of a villain now, his voice low and menacing. But Rick can’t take him seriously, of course.

“You’re very displease?” he asks.

“I’m displeased. I can be displeased. I’m displeased.” Dixon clears his throat. “Fucking very.” 

“Displeased?”

“Dammit! Well if you keep saying it like that—I’m-I’m upset. Shut up, the point is—”

“Well, I’m not exactly lollipops about being poisoned, wizardknapped and tortured myself!” Rick spits.

"Why?" Dixon murmurs.

Rick throws his head back and wants to ask what the fuck he means by why, so he does.

“What the fuck do you mean by why?” 

Dixon is quiet. _Why_ is Dixon’s chest heaving, rapidly lifting up and down like he’s having some sort of asthma attack—as if he’s the one that had just gone through a traumatic feathering experience…like he’s nervous for some reason? 

“Why?” Rick repeats.

“Why did you do it all?” Dixon says quickly, rolling back his shoulders. 

"Er, cause I knew you'd of sought me out yourself." say Rick, wincing at his own words. Dixon rubs at the back of his neck and knawing at a thumbnail.

"You wanted to speak to me? A-alone?" he stutters, spitting out what is probably fresh skin. Rick doesn't even try to stop the next words out his mouth (not that there was much of a chance to hold back the truth anyway).

"Yeah, ok? Yeah."

Dixon finally pulls down the stupid cloth that really wasn’t hiding anything and Rick looks to his downturn mouth almost immediately. His cheeks go hot when Dixon catches him.

  "Why?"

-//-

ONE MONTH AND SOME KNUTS AGO

“I think we all know where the rumors are coming from, Rhee, but I want them squashed as soon as possible! Can’t have the cliental running for Dixon’s cheap goods.” 

Rick stands up from his comfy armchair, pointing his wand to a very detailed model of the school. He conjures stickmen out of a near by package of licorice wands. Like proper soldiers ought to, they stand at attention by mini Hogwarts’ front gates just before he whispers another spell that causes them to scatter about the paper castle, marching to where he wills them.

“One of you at each of our usual posts, Rhee.” Rick says. “Two at the Black Lake, three at the entrance from Hogsmede, and one in each common room. Offer them two free peppermint imps with each candy purchase; a packet and a sugar quill, if they buy a bottle of fire whiskey. No specials on Butterbeer, though. That’s still 3 galleons a set.”

Rick looks around the room, giving his troupe an impressed smirk when they all promptly nod in understanding. 

“Alright gentlemen,” and he recovers quickly when someone gives an indignant squawk from a seat in the back. “Sorry - gentlepeople. I’ve got somewhere to be, but make sure to hand in your sale reports at the end of the week. You’re excused.”

“Er, Rick, sir?”  says his second in command, Glenn Rhee, from behind him. 

He’s got his brows raised high and a large smile that isn’t at all suspicious as his eyes shift from Rick to the table where the little licorice men have started river dancing, and back to Rick again. He glances around and sees that Glenn isn’t the only of his following that are stalking the candied dancers like vultures on pray. Rick looks up to the ceiling, his hands on his hips.

“Yeah, go crazy.” Rick sighs. “But y'all need to remember to save some damn product for selling this time! We don’t want to repeat March of ’74.” 

When they’re all making their way out of the room of requirement, Rick can’t help but feel a little fond as they shout out variants of thanks, their mouths full of candy. He almost forgets to stop Carol before she’s off, catching her mid spell. She’s conjured a tiny licorice ship, complete with a plank and it’s floating against invisible waves near her mouth. Rick assumes, because it's Carol, her stickmen were to soon meet their untimely demise.

“Peletier, before you go…” he starts, catching her elbow. She flicks her wand and one stick man jumps from the plank and onto her tongue.

“Yeah, boss?” She asks, mid chew.

“I’ve got a special mission for you.”

-//-

“When was the last time you bought a chocolate frog?”

Rick bought one yesterday, but that was only because he already went through the box he bought a week before. But it’s not like he’s gunna tell any of them that.

“Bout a month.” He lies, because he’s an amazing liar.

“Pardon me, Rick, but I think you’re lying.” say Eugene, a 5 th year in his house.

 “I could have sworn I had seen you hauling something into the Slytherin common room just the other week. It was marked similarly to Honeyduke’s products.”

Rick rolls out the kinks in his neck. He forces a smile.

“Eugene you’re always there when I fucking need you, aren’t you?” 

Eugene, unbeknownst to Rick’s growing enmity for him, grins. 

“Hey, I only did what I think you’d all do for me. I know I am what many call ‘socially inept,’ but I could see a message in a bottle when it’s there. I’m of the opinion that you when see it, you gotta swim for it.” says Eugene, giving his best impression of a competitive swimmer. 

“I’ll always swim for you, Rick. I’ll swim for all of you.”

“Aren’t you the sweetest, Eugene!” Says the Laura the mediator. She turns her smile from Eugene to Rick, and it looks more concerning that it is warm.

He’s attended the group since 3 rd year, on his uncles wishes…(As if it wasn’t his fault that Rick’d been hell bent on collecting Chocolate Frog cards in the first place. _Only 400 hundred or less in circulation_ , he told him.)  He didn’t have a problem and he told them weekly, reminding them just as much that he was top of his class and that he’s never gotten desperate enough to sell himself for froggy twofers down Knockturn Alley. 

He smiles despite the urge to throw a stunning charm on them all and walk the fuck out.

“Well, oops, did I say a month? Meant a week.” 

“Very good, Rick. We mustn’t forget that there isn’t shame in falling off the broomstick once and a while. You’ve heard all of your groupmates do it.” Laura says.

“But that doesn’t mean stay off, right?” she giggles and shakes her head yes. She probably wants Rick to say yes.

“Uh, yes?”

“Exactly,” she says, turning to everyone with a smile. She spreads her arms wide eagle before bringing them together in a thunerous applause, and all of them—Eugene, Pegged Legged Pirate Joe, Orion, the Harrison sisters and some old man that looks like a poor wizard’s Dumbledore—join her, and all of them are not as enthusiastic as her. In fact some are off time, if that could even be a thing. Anyway, they can’t be any more uncomfortable than Rick is.

When it ends, Rick knows he has to say something. Lost for words, Rick figures he’ll wing it and make it interesting. He stands and smiles wickedly as he does.

“Not sure what to say.” He starts. He rubs thoughtfully at his cheek and jaw, wiping his smirk into a fake frown. 

“I want to thank all of you, of course. Thank you, Eugene! Like, thank you, Eugene, so much. Y'all have been beaters to my rogue bludger! Damn right I’d been rogue bludger—flying out in a thunderstorm of mischief making fairies and dementors and uh, other difficulties and etcetera and pain. And y'all just held tight onto those bats, and knocked me through each hoop. Hoops of life. Y'all got me through hoops of life.”

He’s probably going to make himself vomit, so he keeps going.

“Everyday is a struggle, you know? Every. damn. day!” He spits. He closes his eyes and clenches his fists. He wobbles his lips for substance.

“And then I look at those cards and you know what I think of? I can’t help but think of your smilin’, encouragin’ faces. I say to myself, I say ‘self, what would those people, those beautiful wizards think if I just gave in?’ And just like that, poof, with a 150 point lead all y’all have caught the golden snitch of my life. It’s so easy to walk away.”

And because he’s holding in his laughter, his eyes are watering. Which is perfect because as he wipes his them, he see’s the group, as he knew they would, has taken him completely seriously. He’s got to be honest, Laura he knew was gunna be easy, but even the hard ass Harrison sisters got identical hands to their hearts. Hell, discounted Dumbledore’s trying to indiscreetly wipe his eyes with his beard.

Conversation doesn’t last long after his speech, and in particular his stay. He gives them a quick nod before he bolts, ‘cause the urgency to get the hell away from them increases when Laura announces the end of their session. 

-//-

Dressed sharp and hair slicked back, Rick arrives at Professor Slughorn’s door at precisely 30 minutes from curfew. He knows Slughorn’s got a taste for the finer things in life, all that’s silver and galleons, so when the large oak door starts to open he’s already presenting the bottle he had tucked underneath his cloak. 

“Oh, Rick my boy. What can I do for you?” says the pot bellied wizard, dressed in spotted pajamas and a green bathrobe. Rick grins at him.

“Evening Professor! Sorry to bother you so late, but I was at the Three Broomsticks this afternoon and Madam Rosmerta had insisted I’d give you this.”

It isn’t true, he’d actually swooped it from his own storage, but what the Professor don’t know, won’t hurt him. Rick stuffs his hands in his pockets when Slughorn takes it from him. The professor studies it with fascination, as if it was gunna sprout wings or talk.

“Think someone’s a bit smitten, eh, professor?” Rick gives him a knowing look and Slughorn gasps, holding the bottle to his chest and shielding it like a newborn from the cold.

“Rick Grimes!”

Rick ignores him.

“Sir? While I’ve got you here, actually, you know I love me a good experiment.”

“I do.” says Slughorn, fingers tracing down the bottle’s label as if it contained love itself.

“Well, I’m testing out a few homemade herbicides for herbology, you see, but the student supply room isn’t quite doing the trick. Mind if I borrow a few things?” 

“From my private storage?” Slughorn ask, turning his attention away from the bottle.

“From your private storage.” He nods.

Rick watches as the Slughorn face goes through exactly 7 emotions, before he’s settled on an expression that Rick’s come to learn, in the six years he’s know the man, as _reluctant but hoping for the best_. 

“I’d be sure to share my findings with you, professor. Should my tests prove successful, I heard these types of studies are of the interest of The Yearly Potions Report. I reckon it’d be nice to be published in such an esteemed journal.”

Rick knows the ingredients he needs are as good as in the cauldron, but he really just added that last part for kicks. Slughorn's eyes crinkle as he smiles and stuffs the bottle into the pocket of his bathrobe. He claps Rick on the shoulder before ushering him through the threshold.

“Well, if it's for the future of one of my best and brightest!”

-//-

Rick is not a dramatic man, but he know’s someone is out to get him.

It’s a Conspiracy.There are traitors in his ranks. He’s gunna have to do a full scale investigation, he might eve have to kill and go to Azkaban. What if it was all a ruse? Would Rick to do something he might regret? He’s gunna have to transfer wizarding schools for his last year! He can’t speak french.

But before he could work himself into a full panic, there’s a contented sigh and he’s reminded that there’s only one person who’s known to plot against him.Why Dixon is here, at Rick's bought out bath time, is an open ended question. He’s been making deals with prefects since third year for this damn slot.

He’s going to say something—but he’s caught up in trying to remember the last time he and Dixon’d been in a five foot vicinity for more than a passing moment. Nothing comes up. Rick vaguely remembers having to battle against him at dueling club in second year, but there wasn’t as much skin then. Rick looks down to his body and then back to Dixon’s. They’re both so nude. 

Rick still has his underwear, but he drapes his towel in front of him anyway as he stands in shock and at half salute. Dixon’s floating on his back and his eyes are closed, else he’d probably see Rick and not be as fucking serene looking as he is now. The moment for Rick to back out without confrontation is voided, ‘cause Dixon lays a soaking hand on his bare belly, and even if bubbles cover his flobberworm, Rick can see contours and that’s enough to make him screech like a pissed off Hippogryff. He also drops his towel, so when he tries to inch back, his foot gets caught and he falls face first into the bathroom tile. 

“The fuck are you doing here, Grimes!” shouts Dixon. He clambers out of the bath and walks over to Rick, wet hair falling into his eyes as he stands over him. He’s nice enough to be covered up.

Rick can’t look right at his face. Sort of because he still has his cheek to the floor, but mostly because he's hoping that he’d slipped and bumped his head earlier,that this is all just an elaborate fever dream he's going to soon wake up from. 

“Could ask you the same thing, Dixon.” Rick says, standing up and bringing the asshole towel with him. “Last time I heard, you aren’t a prefect.”

He bypasses Dixon while he’s got his back turned towards a cupboard.

Rick tries to set the bath to his liking, but then he feels Dixon’s heated gaze and he accidentally turns the nob for the fruiter smelling of soaps. Rick could see that Daryl’s got his arms crossed and another towel wrapped on his head like a turban.

“You fuckin’ aint either, so you're one to talk.” Dixon’s still standing there, his fingers digging into his stupid biceps. _17 year olds shouldn’t have biceps like that._

“Agree to disagree.” Rick says, chucking off his shorts. He should probably feel a little mortified to be wand out, but in some weird way it’s almost payback. It’s satisfying and very curious when Daryl groans. Rick decidedly doesn’t look at him.

“Merlin man, could you at least wait ‘til I’m gone.” Dixon says.

Rick’s eases himself into the bath, letting out a fifthly moan whiles he’s doing it.

“So be gone.” Rick snorts, closing his eyes. He hears shuffling, like Dixon’s getting dressed. Then the door creaks and slams. When he opens his eyes again, he’s alone.

Rick backs himself against the closest wall of the pool and slowly forces his body downward, aggressively frowning as water engulfs over his lips, nose, and eyes.

-//-

For the life of him, Rick can’t think of its name, but there’s this plant that’s in nearly every damn tincture. In order for the active ingredient to work its magic, though, its gotta be separated from the parasite that it hosts. It’s a small bug with something like 40 legs and 20 pincers and could be used for a few potions itself, but only a few. Other than that it’s just what it is, a nuisance.

Rick thinks separating 10 of those bugs from one plant would be easier than stopping his kid cousin from whining. His kid cousin, very much Rick’s own gangly and pimpled parasite, is pointing his wand at Rick like he knows how to use the thing.

_ Fuckin’ first years.  _

“Look, kid, you know when I graduate you’re next in line for second, right? But for now just fly along with the program.”

Carl’s eyes go wide.

“Second, Rick? I’m your damn cousin! I should inherent the family—whatever!” He shouts.

“First off, this ain’t a family whatever. It’s a me whatever.” Rick says, pushing down Carl’s wand and throwing himself into his favorite sofa loveseat.

“Second, you can’t even make runs into Hogsmede until third year. It’s all a lot of work behind the scenes, more than you hear from regular meetings. Just sell what you’re given, get good O.W.Ls and for the love of Merlin practice your hexes. I won’t be able to defend you once I’m graduated.“ 

Rick closes his eyes, thinking he might take a nap before dinner.

“But Rick.”

Carl storms off when Rick doesn’t answer him.

-//-

Rick’s sitting at the far end of the Slytherin’s table when Carol slides into the bench in front of him. He doesn’t look at her and she doesn’t look at him. He wipes at his mouth with a cloth napkin and pours them both pumpkin juice.

“Boss.” She says in greeting, whispering into her drink. “It’s done.”

“Hot sauce?” he asks, around a mouth full of mash potatoes. 

“His favorite.” 

She grabs at a chicken leg that’s roughly the size of both her arms combined and gnaws on it, like her soul is hungry. Sure enough, when Rick glances at the Hufflepuff table, there’s Dixon and his cronies laughing and stuffing their mouth with similarly arm-sized chicken pieces. Dixon unscrews the cap of the hot sauce and pours a generous amount onto his own. Rick looks back to his plate and smiles. He nods at it more than Carol. When he stands to leave, he shakes her hand, sliding to her in the process a pack of Drooble’s Best Bubble Gum. 

“Good work.” He whispers, without moving his lips much. “You’ll know where to find me.”

-//-

 

When Dixon and his crew are leaving the Great Hall, Rick’s got several pair of eyes watching as they all go rigid—stilling, before dropping to the ground. If there are students in the halls who notice their fallen classmates, they dutifully pretend they haven’t. It’s a sort of an unspoken rule at Hogwarts: you don’t speak about the candy business, if you know what’s good for you.

While each of his comrades magic the bodies into various alcoves along the hall, Rick bridges the distance between him and Dixon.

“Whaaa?” Dixon can’t keep his eyes open so Rick doesn’t bother leaving his hood up.

“Know thy enemy,” Rick whispers and severs off an inch of Dixon’s hair into a small vial. 

He drags Dixon into a nearby broom closet when he’s completely out. After he’s laid him between spiderwebbed brooms and buckets, Rick spells the door locked, backs out straightens his robes. He walks casually towards the first floor girl's bathroom, whistling the chorus to a popular muggle ballad called Dancing Queen. The tune repeats itself down the hall, from one of his comrade’s lips to the next. He doesn’t have to check back, they know to disperse at the sound.

-//-

Rick wonders if there’s a way to kill ghosts. Like really kill them—poof—vanquished into another, far away realm.

“Give it a rest, Myrtle.”  

He came to work on his potion. He’s never made Polyjuice before, but it looks a lot like the illustration and the instructions say it ought to at this point. It needs a week more to brew. 

“Say, Ricky? If you’re turning yourself into Daryl Dixon, does that mean you’ll be seeing him…naked?” Myrtle sings, her high-pitched voice sending unpleasant chills down the back of his neck.

“That’s not—Shut up.” He breathes, slicing harshly at boomslang skin. 

“Is it considered consensual if it’s not your real body, I wonder? Can you really call masturbation, eh Ricky, hmm?”

She’s floating upside down now, her translucent face inches from his own. Rick throws the boomslang bits into the cauldron, giving it three stirs. He turns to a nearby sink to wash the innards from his hand, and jumps when the potion makes a loud bang, fizzing, before settling into a steady boil.

“Myrtle I swear I’ll call Peeve’s down here. I know how much you love him.” 

She’s lying across the row of sinks now, reclining against the cauldron like a pillow. He’s looking into it and back to his textbook, happy when the colors match.

“Touchy, touchy. I only figured you’d be taking well advantaged of the opportunity. Personally, I’d absolutely die had I the chance to see Dixon in the buff!” She says. “Well, die again.”

“Well, there’s where we’re different! I ain’t got no interest in seeing someone that don’t want me, uh, seeing them. Um, there. Anyway, this is strictly business.” Rick says stiffly, his nose turned up.

“And what business is that? Laying about in the prefect bathroom, playing a game of wizard solitaire while moaning Dixon’s name? Bet you’d love to see his poker hand, wouldn’t you, you filthy boy!” Myrtle mews, much like an agitated cat. 

Rick looks at her and suddenly the tips of ears are burning, probably coloring themselves bright red. 

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” He growls. 

“Don’t you?” Myrtle giggles. “D-Daryl, p-please!” She shutters, closing her hallowed eyes and biting her purple lips.

Rick’s horrified. How she found out about him, er, handling his, uh, situation is beyond him. He stands in a catatonic state as she floats around the room howling in laughter. 

“Ghosts talk, Ricky.” She says, wiping at her eyes like she could produce real tears. “You wouldn’t expect it from a Hufflepuff, but the Fat Friar is quite the gossip. He even wrote a piece about it in the Ghoul Newsletter.”

“Wrote what in the where?” Rick says quick, looking at her sharply.

“It comes out every Wednesday and Sunday.” 

It doesn’t explain anything, but she says it like it does. Rick sighs and accepts it. He hides his face in his hands and leans against a bathroom stall.

“So, did you flick his licorice wand?” 

Rick’s head snaps up.

“What? No!”

“Slytherin to his dungeon?” she continues, waggling her eyebrows.

“Take a plunge into his black lake? Give him a fizzing wizzbang of your own? Take a peak of his restricted section? Dip your spoon into his fudge pot?”

Rick groans, shoving his face in his hands again.

“That last one doesn’t even make sense, Myrtle.” He says, giving her a pleading look. 

“Oh, it makes sense alright. Wait for it.”

 Rick does. Gross.

“Without words, Myrtle. Don’t think I’ll be able to eat fudge for months either.”

He turns to leave as she’s back in ear splitting hysterics.

“Look, Myrtle, can you keep this between you and uh, the rest of the ghosts and I?” he asks in the threshold of the exit.

“Yes, yes of course. Just promise me one thing, Ricky? Promise that when you’re wearing Dixon like a new set of robes to come and visit me…and then come.”

He leaves without saying bye.

-//-

Rick stops dead in his tracks, pulling down his scarf and scratching at is cheek. He gapes at the benches, the cobbled archway and snow—it’s all been splattered in a dark crimson. There’s no sound save the occasional gust of wind against the trees. There are no bodies. He runs down the path towards Hogsmede, but only finds abandon scarves and shoes and coats where his soldiers should stand. 

Dumbfounded, everything seems to slow. He drops to his knees, anger filling him. His eyes fall shut.

“DIXON”, Rick growls, before rubbing his palms into his eyes. How could he had not expected the attack? It’s been weeks since he’d started the sale and everything had been quiet on the other end. He knew that Dixon would have been plotting something, but he didn’t think Dixon would do this. Never this.

“R-rick?”, says a voice from behind a snow bank. It looks like a hastily made shelter, forged together with boulders, driftwood and mud caked snow. He runs towards the voice and finds it’s Glenn. He’s lying on his back, a hand over his heart where dark red stains his Gryffindor tie and white shirt. 

“Glenn, just hold on.” Rick breathes, taking off his thick coat and draping it over his second. He sits on a nearby log beside them, cradling the other boy's head in his lap. Glenn shivers and hisses.

“Shh, I’ve got you.” Rick says. “They’re not going to get away with this.”

“I’m so cold,” Glenn murmurs, looking ashamed. “I should have called a retreat.”

“It’s not on you, Glenn, we should have been more vigilant. Just—what the hell happened out here?” Rick asks, frowning.

“Things were fine, Rick. I was doing rounds as usual and then it came—god it all came so fast.”

“What came? Where was it coming from? Who!” Rick cries, shushing Glenn who his shivering even more violently now. 

“Brian was the first to get hit, Rick, square in the jaw!” Glenn looks away from him, glossy eyed and distant. “I ran as fast as I could, so I could give the rest of our men the whistle, but there was too many of them and we didn’t know where they were coming from.”

Abruptly, Glenn grabs tight onto Rick’s shirt, bending Rick over him. Rick looks to him in shock, seeing the terror relive in his eyes.

“Enchanted snowballs! They got us, Rick! Dirty, unprofessional bastards got us Guerrilla style!”

Glenn lets go of him, exhausted and breathy, falling back into Rick’s lap.

“They got us all.”

-//-

Rick dresses in Hufflepuff robes. If everything goes well, Dixon is going to show up an hour later than he does, probably pissed that he’s been knocked out again and that someone has already met with his connection.

Out of the mist, shortly enough, is a short wizard with a long, pointy hat. He’s spelled a wobbled wheeled wooden cart to follow him. Rick could hear the bottles clink and candy slide as it comes closer. He tests Dixon’s voice.

“Hey, man.” Rick says.

The wizard comes closer to him and smiles.

“Señor Dixon, you’re looking as lovely as ever.” He purrs, in a thick Spanish accent. He’s stepping closer, into Rick’s breathing space and actually bats his lashes. Rick stumbles back onto the tree trunk he’s been standing near. He clears his throat, uncomfortable by how the wizard is staring at him.

“Hey—ho—what.” Rick says, falling back even further as the wizard steps closer to him, grabbing at his wrists. Rick doesn’t know how to react so he just lets the back of his hand get caressed and kissed. 

“It must go without saying, Señor Dixon, of how you tease me so. When you’re ready, I shall bring you towards pleasures no man’d think to dream of.”

“Muh-cho gra-see-as, amigo,” Rick tries, “but I really just came for the supply.”

Rick could admit that the man smelled really good and wasn’t at all bad on the eyes, but even if he was in his own body, he wouldn’t feel comfortable with someone who comes off this strong from the go. The man, thank Merlin, takes that as a cue to lets go of Rick’s hand. He raises both of his own in a defeated position and cocks his head, contemplating Rick with a smirk. 

“Wish is my command.” He coos.

And when they’re exchanging galleons for goods, a few tea cup sized butterflies fly near the wizard’s face. He thrashes a palm though the air, cursing in Spanish. One of them don’t get the memo, because it gets slapped and it falls into a small, twitching heap on the forest floor.

“Did you just slap that butterfly?” Rick says, stuffing his change into his wallet. The wizard looks down to it and shrugs. Rick’s still disturbed, muttering about consent and outrageous slapping of majestic beasts long after the wizard has gone and apparated away. 

-//-

“And that is why I think I would make a perfect mermaid king.”

Must to his astonishment, everyone’s managed to keep straight faces. Rick hasn’t, but by now they’re all used to his resting bitch face. He’s heard way too much of Eugene’s venture into the mer-world, and getting entangled in a very boring and not at morally sound, inter-species romance. Rick lets out a long exhale, happy when butterbeer appears next to him. There’s perks to having group at The Three Broomsticks. He downs half of his in one go, feeling way more confident in feigning interest and sympathy.

“Rick, you are a conventionally attractive man.” Eugene says, like he’s uncomfortable. “What would you do in my position?”

Rick shifts in his seat.

“Um?”

“Do you think I should tell her how I feel and face the rath of her Father and scrutiny of her 67 brothers and sisters?”

Everyone in the group is staring at him. What does he think? He thinks Eugene would be a terrible mer-king for starters; that if she knew any better, the mermaid he’s fallen for would swim her way into any dark crevice of the black lake and never come out. 

“I think that the scum that washes up along the shore’d be more suitable to be a merking.”

Rick yelps, staring at the other boy in horror and watching Eugene go from sad to angry in seconds. 

“I…I…” Rick stammers, his throat suddenly dry. He downs the rest of his butterbeer. Laura frowns at him.

“Rick, now why would you go and say a thing like that? Not very nice, indeed.” She says.

“I didn’t mean to say that at all. Look, I meant to say that I hope this merwoman loves herself enough to make home far away from him—like the pacific ocean.” Rick drops the bottle as his hand fly to his mouth, and it crashes to the floor. Everyone’s as shocked as he is, except the Harrison sisters who are hunched together and openly giggling.

“Shit. Eugene, I’m so sorry.” He says through his fingers. He really is, he doesn’t know why he’s saying any of it.

Glaring at a long table filled with treats, Eugene’s eyes fill with tears. Laura rushes over to him, crouching in front of his chair and taking his hand in hers.

“There, there” she says, rubbing circles into his palm. Then she shoots a sharp look to Rick and he’s honest to Merlin—terrified. She’s an old lady, like 40 or something, and they know stuff. Been through things.

“I don’t know why I said that, Laura. Eugene, look man.” Rick says, trying to take control of his words.

“I’m sorry. It was rude of me to say.” He says. He could physical feel himself holding back from elaborating, not wanting to further sink into the shit hole he’s dug himself in.

“Rick, over the years in group together, you and I haven’t always been—a popular metaphor may be—eye to eye. But I believe’d us to be amicable. You hurt me, Rick. You really have.” Eugene says.

“How could you be so judgmental on my choice of life partner?” 

“Eugene, man, it’s not like that at all!” Rick tries, but Eugene promptly ignores him.

“In all theses years, too, I have never once seen you partake in what one would consider a serious relationship. Have you ever even been in love?”

“Yes!” he shouts, desperately. There are gasps around the room. Rick could see the Harrison sisters and peg-legged Pirate Joe whispering to each other, 2-sickle-bin dumbledore has a hand over his mouth and heart, and even Orion’s eyes have gone wide. Had he really came off this cold all these years? 

“With who?” Eugene is the first to ask.

Rick, knowing something was wrong, runs away in response. He stomps down the stairs and into dining room of the Three Broomsticks, two steps at a time and is several feet out the main exit when the world goes dark.

-//-

They say the first step is admitting you have a problem.

“Ok,” Rick says and mostly to himself. He’s got a problem. He thinks about the first time he had the unfortunately pleasure of meeting his. 

Rick was choking on the cold air, huffing and puffing as he ran after the closed doors of the Hogwarts Express. His uncle had dropped him at King’s Cross too late that September 1st. He threw sparks from his wand, hoping someone’dcatch its red lights reading: “WAIT, FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN—STOP!”

It was another young wizard who’d seen the display and asked the conductor to open the door. When Rick rushed his way into the train, that same kid, easy smile and sleepy eyes, offered him the empty seat in his carriage. They took to each other quickly after they introduced themselves, and in an hours time they’d know everything there was to know about each other, or what little details they could divulge from their 11 years of living.

Rick thought it was the damnedest thing that they both had grown up in the states, and wasn’t surprised Daryl Dixon’s slow drawl hailed from the south, too. He found that unlike Rick’s pureblood, Daryl was half, and his pop was a muggle soldier stationed in the UK. Rick told him that he had to move on account that his parents died a few years back and his distant uncle came and adopted him. Rick didn’t like how Daryl got all quiet and uncomfortable after that, so he had tried to change the subject, asked him if he knew any spells. Minutes later they were holding back giggles, not bating an eye when the trolly lady looked disapprovingly at their twin beards and curly mustaches. When they both went and asked for the last chocolate frog, Rick thought he owed it to his new friend and let him have it.

It hadn’t even crossed his mind that they’d be sorted into different houses, nor how hard it would be to maintain a friendship now that they’d be separated. In the course of six years, a few quiet “heys” in passing and half-assed plans to hang out had turned into an ongoing, semi-malicious prank war. They’d send their lackeys to set dungbombs under each others four-poster beds and replace coloring potions within their shampoos so the other’s hair turned bright pink. Some how, not only had they’d each managed to become leaders of their own underground candy and booze rings, they had become enemies. Even if no one had known exactly why or how it started, all of Hogwarts new it was much deeper, they knew that Rick Grimes and Daryl Dixon hated each other.

And Rick’d liked them to think as much, egged it on even, because it was less embarrassing than admitting that that he was actually an uncomfortable amount of in love with Daryl. 

No, he's never caught himself scribbling Daryl’s name in the margins of his notes or anything, but he's definitely a 17 year old and he’d definitely only got it on with is hand all these years, never making it passed a few heated make out sessions in the dark corners of the castle with anyone other. If that wasn’t love, Merlin’s cock, Rick didn’t know what was! 

Fuckin pathetic, probably, Rick had often thought, so when he came back for his last year he figured it was now or never. He conjured up a plan to deal with his problem—his real problem, a Hufflepuff with a sweetooth. Not some silly side goal of finding a rare chocolate frog card! Some fuck who wore leather jackets when he wasn’t wearing his school robes and had a hidden, enchanted motorcycle; some dick whose wayfarers pushed back long hair like a crown, more often than they shaded his eyes.

Fuckin' Daryl Dixon who’s got him strapped to this damn chair and asking him impossible questions.

“Cause I’m pretty in over my head.” Rick says finally, looking to the floor. He toes at a pile of dust and scrapes it between the holes in the wood. “Over you. A lot over my head.”

“Over me?” Daryl squeaks, before clearing his throat. He drops his voice a peg in recompense. “You like me? Y-you like me is what you’re saying?”

Rick finally looks up to him, too tired of denying it and accepting that he’s going to have to say what he actually means. Daryl is sitting on a table now, legs rocking under it like he’s on a swing set. He looks like he’s ate something nasty. That makes Rick feel a little better. Or no, not at all. He grimaces.

“Not like, actually—love. You, that is.” Rick laughs without really meaning it and wishes that he wasn’t tied up because he really wants to scratch out his voice box. Daryl’s legs swing even more violently.

“Fuuck meee,” Daryl says dazed and waves his wand. Rick’s binds fall. He looks at Daryl, who’s just a bunch of moving limbs at this point. One hand scratches through his hair, teeth biting at his lips, other hand wand tapping an arrhythmic tune on the table. It’d be comedic, if he didn’t look as scared as Rick felt.

"Wait is that a...Um nevermind." 

Rick the exact opposite, when he stands. He doesn’t know how to place his feet or where his hands should go. What is the international stance that readies you for an epic heartbreak? 

“Well, I, uh—like—fuck it! I love you too!” Daryl says, just as Rick was sure he found it the right footing. He falls back into the chair.

“Come again?” Rick asks, staring at Daryl like he’s grown an extra head.

“I love you too?”

Daryl stops moving all together and looks at Rick a little helplessly. Rick can see a vulnerability in his eyes that he knows all too well, but he can’t make himself believe in it. _Daryl. love. him._ That’s it. That easy?

“Fuck you!” Rick spits. “Drug me up to be honest? I’ll be honest, I knew you didn’t like me, but I never knew you hated me this much. You could hate me enough to use this against me? This!” 

Shaking his head, eyes wild, Daryl hops off the table.

“Fuck you! I’m tellin’ the truth!”, he shouts, coming within a foot of Rick. Standing up again, Rick stares him down, jaw setting to the side. Daryl’s eyes narrow, before he removes another small vial from his pockets. It’s another bottle of veritaserum. Rick frowns.

“What are you…“

“I didn’t know if I’d need another bottle, “ Daryl says and promptly downs its entirety. He makes a face but sobers quickly, shaking the empty bottle between them.

“See, now I’m drugged up too.”  Daryl looks determined, his hand on his hips. “Go on, ask me.”

Rick’s shoulders fall from where they were tensed. Now that he’s back on even playing fields he feels much more relaxed and better to handle the situation, but there’s still a heavy uncertainty tugging at the bottom of his stomach. _Ask? Ask what? Where does he start?_

“Would you slap a butterfly?” He hears himself say.

“W-what?” Daryl asks, face scrounged up in confusion. He glances to the side of the room like the answers are written on the wall and back to Rick.

“Uh, you heard me.” Rick says. He lifts his chin and crosses his arms.

“No, I wouldn’t.” Daryl says slowly. Rick nods.

“Well, that’s...that’s good.”

Rick doesn’t know how long they stand there for, both breathing heavily out their noses and not talking. Then Daryl groans, wiping a hand over his face.

“Fuckin, Rick man, so should we just make out?” Daryl says, exasperated.

But as it’s them, and _they_ , have never came easy, Daryl’s running and throwing up something fierce into a steel bucket that had been catching fallen snow. It doesn’t take Rick long to follow him, spilling his own guts all over the chair he was tied to.

-//-

“This don’t count as a first date, do it?” Rick says, face squashed into his pillow, burritoed in the three blankets he stole from neighboring beds. Daryl snorts and tip toes out of his own and into Rick’s, rolling him from his cocoon. 

“Move over.” He grunts.

“Hey, I’m not that kind of lady. I don’t put out on the first date.” Rick says, and frowns as he makes room for Daryl. 

“Don’t put out at all, actually.” He groans. 

“I hate this fuckin' potion.”

Daryl’s shakes the bed with his laughter.They’re laying on their backs, hip to hip and sharing a pillow. Under the covers, Rick has a hand over Daryl's.

“Figures we’d both be pair of virgins.” Daryl says into the cold. They both laugh this time.

When they’ve caught up on breathing, they lie in silence, watching as the stars of the enchanted infirmary ceiling fall and rearrange themselves into shapes.

“How long, Rick?” asks Daryl, turning up his palm so he could entwine their fingers. Rick knows what he’s asking and hell, he’s going to be embarrassed to say, but he doesn’t think he’d want to lie if he could.

 “Since the beginning,” Rick whispers. “Since I met you on the Hogwarts Express.”

Daryl lets go of Rick. He turns to his side and elbows a pillow, cupping his head in his hand as leans over Rick. Closer than he’s been in years, Rick thinks Daryl doesn’t look too different than he did back then—just stupidly inviting—but now there’s a few hairs around his mouth and beauty mark.  They’re staring at each other and maybe Rick’s still in shock. It only took them a few years and poisonings, but they’re here. 

Rick doesn’t notice Daryl pull something from his never ending pocket, but he does feel when it’s pressed into his palm. It’s rough and frayed, like it’d been folded over a few times.

“What’s this?” 

Rick brings it from under the covers and holds in front of him. He moves it to the side so the candle light could catch it before unfolding it. His heart drops and bolts right up in bed, coving his mouth in shock. Daryl sits up slower, watching Rick in confusion.

“It’s the card I got, you know? The one from the frog you let me have?” he says.

“Rick, shit, are you crying?”  

“No, I’m not crying it’s just drafty…Think a window…allergens…” 

He’s crying and he can’t remember how or when it started. Had he been breathing because as fast as his heart is stammering he doesn’t think he was.He decides to take a few deep breaths just in case, but i t doesn’t calm him.

Rick examines the card closely, and looking over the inscription he reads the name over and again. His throat tightens as the witch in the night blue robes and matching hat smiles up at him.  He smiles back, wiping the back his hand underneath his nose. He’s startled 'cause he almost forget's Daryl who was right next to him until the other boy places a soft hand on his shoulder. Rick looks to him with a watery grin. 

“It’s her, Dare. It’s my mom.” Daryl’s eyes go wide before he breaks out into his own smile.

Rick kisses it compliant and they sit there with their bodies twisted awkwardly, reaching for each other any way they can. Rick’s got fingers digging into Daryl’s arm and Daryl’s got his under Rick’s jaw, a thumb rubbing over his adam’s apple. Rick pulls back first, kissing Daryl before he’s carefully placing the forgotten chocolate frog card on the bedside table. He falls back and brings Daryl’s into him with a laugh.

“Thank you.” Rick mumbles, against Daryl’s lips. 

“For what?” he asks.

“For keeping the card.”

And Rick feels light. No candy high, no butterbeer buzz could could compare. This feeling of a war resolved, a loved one found, and new home to be warmly welcomed, a wizard might just find himself addicted.  

They say the first step is admitting that you have a problem. 

Rick does. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, in a land far away (we’ll call it October 2014) lived a fic writer. Feeling adventurous and particularly inspired after an astounding premiere, she asked for prompts. One gentle, anonymous voice whispered out to her, asked, “could you write a rickyl harry potter au?” The writer’s heart flew from her chest. She shook her laptop. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” she cried. Then she saw all the other beautiful prompts, and feeling their sense of neglect she started to write all of them at the same time. She couldn’t focus on one and as life took its toll, one month became four, and soon they all were left unfinished. The writer, me, because I’m writing in the third, finally got inspired again; and she (me again), doesn’t know what or why she wrote that she did, but hopes that it was entertaining anyway.


End file.
